Children of the Week
by TuesdayNovember
Summary: Drabble series. A traditional English nursery rhyme foretells of certain aspects of a child, depending on the day they were born. How well does this rhyme really work?
1. Monday's Child

**This idea's been kicking around in my head for a few weeks now, so here you have it, my newest method of procrastination. **

**Enjoy!**

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_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

* * *

_Monday's child is fair of face._

Narcissa Black was born on a Monday. It was a quiet, unassuming day – bright, but not overly so, and warm, but not quite hot enough to go outside without a light jacket – in short, it was a terribly common day to be born.

Bellatrix, who remembered the day of her other sister's birth very well (it had been cold and snowy – certainly a strange sight for mid-August) and who lived under the assumption that she had been born on a night of torrential rain and thunder, found Narcissa's birthday much too _average_ for her liking.

But Bellatrix didn't dare voice such a concern in front of her parents, for she was still in trouble for the comment she had made at her Aunt Walburga's house. (_I hate the playroom! It looks like a _muggle_ decorated it!_) So, in an uncommon show of gentility, she kept her comments to herself as she and her sister Andromeda were led by their nurse to the room where their parents were cooing over the newborn.

The nurse didn't tarry, instead pushing the sisters gently inside and scurrying out, not wanting to intrude on the family moment. The room was bright and airy, painted a soft shade of green and fitted with pale wood furniture quite unlike the dark woods that outfitted the rest of the house. Inside, Andromeda rushed immediately to her mother's side to peer at the child asleep in her arms.

Bellatrix hung back, unsure. Andromeda had screamed and cried when Bellatrix had come in and insisted on holding her, and the none-too-gentle rebukes she had received still flashed in her memory. It was Andromeda's little gasps and cooing that enticed Bellatrix closer. In spite of her apprehension, she was deathly curious to know what the baby looked like. With quiet little steps, she took her place at her mother's other side to examine the baby.

The baby was a she. And although Bellatrix knew she should have been praying for a boy, she'd been secretly hoping for another girl. Boys, she thought, were boring and not at all fun to play with. Girls were smart and boys were dumb, and so she was secretly buoyed by the birth of her sister.

As Bellatrix was wrapped up in thoughts of all the things she would teach the newest addition to the Black family, Andromeda spoke.

"Maman?" Her voice was soft out of concern for the baby. "Maman, why does the baby not look like us?"

By 'us' of course she meant her and her sister, for the child bore a striking resemblance to her mother.

At Andromeda's words, Bellatrix took a second look at the baby.

"She's blonde!" Bellatrix cried, much too loudly.

"Bellatrix! Shh!" Her mother hissed sharply, then her tone softened and she said, "Yes girls, your sister does look different from you. But not all siblings look alike."

Bellatrix frowned at the child, forehead creased in concentration, as if willing the child's hair to darken. But as she stared at her sister, the creases on her forehead began to fade and a strange calm washed over her. A calm she hadn't felt when Andromeda had been born, looking like a miniature version of herself.

"Maman," Bellatrix whispered, suddenly conscious of how loud her voice could be, "she's beautiful!"

Druella Black smiled at her daughters.

"So she is."

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**So, what do you think? Review, please! =)**


	2. Tuesday's Child

**Here we have it, the next installment. I hope to have the next bit up soon, but Wednesday's child isn't cooperating with me, and I'm still having trouble trying to figure out Thursday's child.**

**Ah well, enjoy!**

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_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

* * *

_Tuesday's child is full of grace._

In the rarely used, echoing ballroom of Black Manor, the Black sisters were learning dancing, and it was no doubt an odd sight. Bellatrix, who was used to doing everything perfectly and without fault found herself tripping over her own feet in an effort to keep up with the quick twirls and sudden changes of direction. Narcissa, who the three sisters had thought would be the most adept, was not faring much better than the eldest. She had managed not to fall as yet, but she looked, as their instructor told her with waning patience, like a baby dragon that hadn't yet learned to walk. Andromeda, however, had surprised both her instructor and her sisters by being, well, _good._

"That's not _fair!_" Narcissa cried as she nearly twisted an ankle mid-twirl.

Their instructor, a middle aged wizard in comically purple robes, shook his head at the youngest girl, "Watch how your sister does it." He said, taking Andromeda by the hand and leading her in a set of intricate twirls and dips.

Much to both Narcissa and Bellatrix's chagrin, she didn't once trip. Although they hardly realized it, when their instructor led Andromeda back to them, their faces were painted with bitter scowls.

"You see?" Their instructor said, "Just do what your sister does."

The problem was, however, that they didn't _know_ what she did; her fluidity of movement was alien to Bellatrix and Narcissa.

"Now Bellatrix, I want you to try the dragontail turn followed by two successions of inverted Thestral, alright?"

With her chin jutted forward defiantly, Bellatrix allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor where their instructor led her through two of the most basic moves. Seated beside each other in ornamentally uncomfortable chairs, Narcissa and Andromeda watched their sister, Narcissa's face screwed up in concentration while Andromeda tried to hide her smirk as Bellatrix tripped over their instructor's toes and fell flat on her face.

Unfortunately for Andromeda, Bellatrix saw her snicker as she rose, and with shouts of "You little son of a mudblood!" Bellatrix ran after her sister, who, with a shriek, flew from her chair.

But without her wand, Bellatrix was powerless against Andromeda, who seemed to always be able to flutter and dance away from her grasp.

"Girls! _Girls!_" Their instructor shouted, stepping between Bellatrix and Andromeda. He took Bellatrix by the arm. "You'll never learn to dance if you don't _practice._" He said. "Now try the dragontail turn again."

And as Bellatrix was once again led to the dance floor, Andromeda floated to her seat, laughing.

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**So, did you like it, or do you think I should abandon writing forevermore? Do tell. **

**And as I said above, I'm having a bit of trouble with that little brat Thursday, so if anyone has any ideas, please tell me! =)**


	3. Wednesday's Child

**Here we have it! Thank you tons and tons to everyone who reviewed, favourited or put this story on their alerts. And thank you as well to you silent readers (though some noise is appreciated too.) **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

* * *

___Wednesday's child is full of woe._

"My lord," Regulus breathed, the slightest hint of fear breaking through his veneer of obedience, bowing so that only the crown of his head was visible to the pale man he called 'lord'.

"Do you know why I have brought you here?" The man's voice was powerful and cold.

"My lord, I hope that I do. If I may be so bold as to speak freely before you..." He trailed off, waiting for permission.

Something sharp hit his cheek, drawing a line of blood perpendicular to his mouth. "When I ask a question, you answer directly."

Regulus bowed again, "Yes, my lord." A pause. "I believe it is..."

When Regulus returned to Grimmauld Place that night, his mother was waiting for him by the door.

"Regulus," She smiled emotionlessly at him, eying the thin line on his cheek. "How did it go?"

"Fine, mother." He pushed past her, into the house. "Is father home?"

"You know he is."

With a heavy sigh, Regulus Black began to climb the stairs, moving slowly, as if he expected to be called back down. But his mother made no further comment as he retreated.

He made his way to his room mechanically, his mind enveloped in more important things. The outcome of his meeting with the Dark Lord was still uncertain in his mind. He knew only so far as that someone would be punished for failure at Hoggs Hollow, where not three days ago, Malfoy and Yaxley had been unsuccessful in killing the three blood traitors the Dark Lord had singled out.

But that was not the most important thing. Punishments were far from uncommon among the Dark Lord's inner circle. No, his main cause for concern was much more personal – a nagging doubt that refused to relinquish its hold over a growing portion of his mind.

Since the Dark Lord's rise, his parents had made no indication that they doubted the cause. Although they rarely made mention of Regulus' odd disappearances, and only acknowledged his cousin Bellatrix's involvement obliquely, they never showed disapproval for the work they did.

Quite the opposite.

By avoiding the topic so delicately they only made it more obvious that they approved.

And at first, Regulus had been happy. An odd feeling, he noticed, for someone so used to the woe of being _not quite good enough_. But their respect for his involvement in the cause waned over time, as with most things, and Regulus was left doing something he had only felt a lukewarm passion for in the first place.

And now, with his brother becoming more heavily involved in the Order of the Phoenix, he began to feel the familiar woe returning to him. He was not made for fighting, on either side. He was not made for nobility or valour or The Cause – either one.

Lips drawn in a tight line, something that had become more common for him of late, he sat down on his bed and heaved a heavy sigh. Eyes closed, he took a moment to imagine how lovely it would be to feel a woman's touch, to be kissed, to have someone who cared waiting for him when he returned. Three things he had never known.

He roused himself from his daydream and reached over to his bedside table. He withdrew a journal and dull brown ostrich feather quill from a drawer.

He opened it, and teeth clenched tight, mouth fixed in a thin line, he began to write.

_I was not made for happiness. _

_This is something I have come to realize over the course of my life. But I don't feel bad for it, and I certainly don't want _pity_ for it. No, it is simply a fact that I must live with._

He paused a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

_After all this time, all the brief moments of uncertainty that flash before my eyes like so many troubled pictures, I have made up my mind. I will do the thing that I have been considering. _

Another deep breath.

_I know I won't survive. And even if I do, that death would be the favourable option. I know what the Dark Lord's followers are capable of. I know what Bellatrix is capable of. _

_This is my last entry. I must remember to thank cousin Narcissa, if I ever see her again, for giving me this book last Christmas. No doubt it was expensive._

_What a waste._

He frowned and closed the book, withdrawing his wand from his sleeve.

"_Incendio." _He murmured, and the book fell to ash.

* * *

**Side note: Hoggs Hollow is an actual place, though it's not anywhere in the UK, it's in Canada (Toronto, actually). But I thought it sounded suitably _wizard_ to be used in this context.**

**Reviews are always met with kindness. (And again, if anyone has any ideas _at all_ about Thursday, _please_ tell me.)**


	4. Thursday's Child

**Many thanks to Az (Inkfire) and RowenaJeanLovegood whose ideas I greatfully accepted for Thursday's child. Thank you both!**

**This one is a bit lighter fare than the previous. I figured a bit of levity would be nice. **

**Hope you like it!**

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_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

* * *

_____Thursday's child has far to go_.

Draco was crying. Loud, wavering shrieks punctuated the air as the tiny child kicked at his blankets and ravelled himself into a mess.

His mother was by his side in an instant, plucking him from the crib and bouncing him gently.

"Y_e_s, it's okay. Mummy's here for you. Ooh, yes. Who's mummy's favourite? Is it you? Yes it is! That's right Draco, sweetie, _you're_ mummy's favourite!"

Baby Draco sniffled indignantly. His shrieks had stopped, but threatened to start again in an instant.

"What is it that you want, sweetie? Are you hungry?"

But words were beyond the ten-month-old's capabilities, so Narcissa's question went unanswered. Shifting him slightly, with a softly cooed, "Ooh, my baby's getting _heavy._ Yes you are! You're a big boy, aren't you?" (To which Draco gave no response beyond some minor squirming) Narcissa began to pace slowly around the room.

In the midst of this, Lucius peered in. "Again?" He said, the slightest hint of condescension in his voice. "The child's going to grow up a needy brat if you don't let him be."

Narcissa turned to face her husband, "Oh I know, but he was _crying_, Lucius! I couldn't just leave him! My poor baby was _lonely!_"

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Narcissa," he began, drily, "Our son in ten months old. He can barely stand. How do you expect him to feel _lonely_?"

"_Lucius!_" She sounded scandalized, "Just because our poor baby is young doesn't mean he doesn't _feel!_" She refocused her attention back towards her son, who, seeming to realize he was no longer the focus of his mother's actions, was taking a breath to begin shrieking again.

"You're a good boy, aren't you? And you do feel, sweetie, I know you do." She planted a kiss on his forehead.

Draco giggled.

"Narcissa," Lucius began again, "You're going to turn our son into a pansy if you keep babying him like that."

"Draco _is_ a baby, Lucius. Yes you are! And you're a _good_ little baby, aren't you?"

For a moment, Lucius simply watched his wife coddling their child, and tried to figure out how best to solve the problem of Narcissa.

It didn't take long for him to find a solution, even if it were a temporary one. Though, he reasoned, I wouldn't mind doing this every time he starts crying. With a confident smirk, he strode over to his wife and wrapped his arms around her midsection, trailing kisses along her neck.

"Lucius!" She hissed. "Stop that!"

But he didn't stop, and in a moment Narcissa had succumbed to her husband.

"Oh alright, alright. Let me just put Draco down." She put him back in his crib and said, "Mummy will be back in 20 minutes." One of Lucius' hands found her breasts. She gasped. "Make that 30."

They hurried out of the room, throwing themselves into their own.

Narcissa had just removed her robes when a shriek cut through the air. She stopped and began to turn away.

Her husband grabbed her arm, but she quelled him. "Oh Lucius I'm sorry, but my baby needs me!" And, throwing her robes on quickly, she hurried out of the room.

Lucius sat down heavily on the bed.

"Our son." He grumbled, "Is going to be the biggest brat in the world."

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**So, I know that was a bit subtle. In case you're unsure, Draco has far to go before he stops being a spoiled brat. =)**

**What'd you think? I had a ton of fun writing this one. **


	5. Friday's Child

**So, yes, this took a very, very long time. And I'm very sorry about the delay, but _oh_ you have no idea how much grief Friday was giving me. I don't know how many times I had to rewrite it until I finally got this.**

**Fortunately, though, I have Saturday and Sunday properly mapped out, so they'll be up considerably more quickly than this one was.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

* * *

___Friday's child is loving and giving_.

It was loud in the Department of Mysteries. Too loud, really. Sirius could barely think with all the noise – of course, not much thought was necessary. It was all reactionary.

Bellatrix – cousin Bellatrix who wasn't his cousin anymore – was just before him. Laughing and shrieking and taunting, just the way she always used to.

Sirius didn't understand how, after all those years, after _Azkaban_, she could still be so much like her old self.

But he didn't dwell on that, for the woman with mad eyes who was no longer his cousin was laughing and shrieking and taunting _him_, and Harry was just there. Just on the other side of the room, looking so like James that it almost hurt to see him, at times like these.

Just like old times – cousin Bella laughing, and James _just there_, laughing too, but for a different reason.

And Sirius thought he might give anything, _anything_ to see Harry laughing and smiling the way James did.

And Sirius thought that he could make it happen. He _knew_ he could make it happen, if only Bella would _stop_. But of course she'd never stop, so he would have to stop her.

He ducked.

A curse flashed by him, and it was Sirius' turn to laugh, because Bella, young Bella, so like her former self, had never missed him before.

But Bella, old Bella, _wasn't_ her former self. And she didn't like it when Sirius – little baby Sirius who never bested her at anything – managed to skip away from her curse like it was _so easy. _

So Bella did the only thing she could – she sent a Stunning spell at him. Nothing dangerous, but he was laughing, and that was guaranteed to hit, to teach him a lesson.

But she didn't see – or she didn't know – that the archway leading nowhere was behind him, and when the bolt of red hit his chest, he was still laughing, thinking _I've beat her now. I'll get her, and then I can help Harry –_

And the laugh was still on his face, in his eyes, as he fell through and didn't emerge from the other side, like he should have.

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**I do love reviews, you know. (hint hint, nudge nudge)**


	6. Saturday's Child

**This is a short one. I sort of just vomited it out last night, and edited it today. But hey, I updated relatively quickly!**

**A huge thank you, as always, to my dear, darling reviewers, favouriters, alerters and silent readers. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

* * *

_Saturday's child works hard for a living._

Bellatrix led her wand through a series of complex, intricate motions with the skill and languor of the truly talented.

Flowers of blood bloomed rosy red on the man's chest, arms, legs and a cry – harsh and unwilling – was torn from his throat.

She laughed. She laughed because here was all the compensation she needed. Years in Azkaban, months of chasing dead-end trails, weeks of searching, hours of waiting and those final unendurably long minutes of battle where the slightest mistake could let the filth win.

She would do anything – she did do anything – to make sure that her side got what it deserved. How many times had she killed, tortured, maimed? How many times had she endured her Lord's wrath? How many innumerable times had she broken those feeble, undeserving bodies?

And now here she was, standing above that man who dared deny the rights of her Lord, and she laughed, because after all she'd done, she deserved a reward.

* * *

**I'm trying a new tactic. Bribery.**

**If you review, I will bestow upon you great honour and fame. **


	7. Sunday's Child

**Here it is, the final installment. I'd like to thank all my wonderful readers and reviewers, especially the reviewers of the last chapter. Reader, I ask that you honour and and look at the profiles of these wonderful people.**

**Thank you to BellaPur, Anna Scathach, jobogtheqwerty, samira parsa, Lamia of the Dark, slytheringrl573, StarKid McFly, anonymouth, Inkfire and especially my anonymous reviewer Maggie, who I couldn't thank personally. **

**I hope you all like this chapter. And (not to be a pimp, but) if you've liked this, I've begun another drabble series, _Senses_, if you want to look at that. (But only if you want to. No pressure. ^^)**

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_Monday's child is fair of face,_  
_Tuesday's child is full of grace,_  
_Wednesday's child is full of woe,_  
_Thursday's child has far to go,_  
_Friday's child is loving and giving,_  
_Saturday's child works hard for a living,_  
_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day_  
_Is bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

Traditional Nursery Rhyme

* * *

_But the child that is born on the Sabbath day  
I__s bonnie and blithe and good and gay._

The room is lit by flickering incandescent bulbs, casting everything in a warm orange glow. The streetlamps outside illuminate pools on the street and sidewalk, making it look as if the heavy drops of rain are sparkling and dancing some quick Waltz.

The odd car drives by, sending curtains of water up, to splash down again in a glittering sheet.

The interior of the room is sterile but not unpleasant. Starched white sheets and plain lampshades are made up for by paintings on the walls and the smiling staff.

Mother and child lie cocooned in while blankets, pale faces set aglow by the warm lights. She holds her son close. He is asleep and breathing softly. The bit of hair he has is dark and downy, and now dry, it looks thin and wispy. If he had more, it would be sticking up, a mess.

The quiet peace of the room is interrupted by the opening of the door and a click of shoes.

"I'm sorry ma'am, but we've got to take him away now," a young girl in a starched uniform comes in.

The boy's mother looks up from the bed, her arms still tight around him. She's tired – very tired. It's all she can do to hold the boy close when her body won't cooperate to let her even sit up, or push the hair from her eyes.

The young girl comes closer, arms outstretched, "What did you say his name was, ma'am?" the girl is reaching over to pull him from her arms.

She uses the last bit of strength she has to crane her neck towards her son, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. When she speaks, her voice is thin and weak.

"_Tom,_" she murmurs, and sinks back down.

* * *

**It's been great writing this for you. Any final feedback you might have would be met with great pleasure.**


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